Fear
by blodreina
Summary: "Little do you know, I'm trying to pick myself up piece by piece. Little do you know, I need a little more time. Underneath it all, I'm held captive by the hole inside. I've been holding back for the fear that you might change your mind. I'm ready to forgive you but forgetting is a harder fight." [broken Frary one-shot: season 2.]


**Fear**

Mary hated the paralyzing fear that filled her now when she looked at any man - at her own husband, even.

If it was just touch that frightened her, perhaps it would have been more bearable. But it wasn't. Just a man being near her crippled her, made it so that she was unable to breathe and she could not even move away.

The sound of their breathing was perhaps the worst. Sometimes, all she wanted was to be in Francis's arms, to hear the breath in his lungs and his heartbeat beneath her ear, and yet that same idea filled her with such terror and she felt as if she would go mad with the stress.

Even that day when he had simply stepped toward her in the corridor, his hand outstretched, meaning to comfort, her blood had run cold and she had had to stumble back, because -

 _"Don't. No wrong that we have committed against your people will be remedied this night!"_

 _Severin moved toward her and struck her across the face, sending her to the floor._

 _"Don't speak to me of wrongs done, you murdered my son! You and your husband."_

Even that night when she had invited her husband back into his bed, so sad for him, seeing him sleep on that little chaise night after night for her sake... his breath had been too much for her to handle. She knew, logically, that Francis would never dream of hurting her. But the voice of logic and reason had been pushed to the back of her thoughts after her assault, and the fear overrode all of it. The sound of a man's breath next to her...

 _Severin was over her, his hot breath washing over her face and painfully loud in her ears. She tried to scream and then suddenly, there was a hand over her mouth and Severin's own hand was around her throat, he was hurting her, he was going to -_

She just couldn't.

And one day, suddenly, that fear was not so present anymore.

Mary touched Louis. Just a touch on the arm, but it was enough to fill her with joy. Before, even a courteous touch of the hand had sent her into a panic. And she supposed that was why she credited so much of her recovery to him. He was there for her when she needed him. She could not turn to Francis, not through any fault of her husband's, but because the thought of coming back to her old rooms where he still was, was just to much. The thought of coming back to the place where those men had assaulted her, where they had...she couldn't.

Louis was a safety net for her. He had been there to catch her when she had pushed Francis away as she spiraled.

And yet.

She still loved Francis more. She knew it in her heart, vehemently as he tried to deny it. The fear that she felt at the news of his illness was enough to tell her that, and she knew that she could not lose him, not now, not ever. But what if she already had?

She sat on his bed and held his hand. He was lost to her, to all of them. Somewhere where they could not seem to reach him, deep in unconsciousness. Once, not so long ago, she had not been able to touch him at all, let alone hold his hand, and she felt comfortable voicing this thought to him, knowing that he could not hear her, although she didn't know if she would have said it if he could.

"I remember when I couldn't be this close to you," she told the serene face before her, staring at him. "Or even hear the sound of your breath." Her tears began to fall. "I cling to that sound now. I don't want it to end." She bent her head over him and wept for him, so sure that he was going to die, that she would never get the chance to tell him how sorry she was, that she had really loved him this whole time, she had just needed space, time, to feel her heart again...

And then his eyes opened.

She hadn't been expecting it. She didn't know what to do. Even after she found Catherine, after Francis confronted her about her plan to leave him, she couldn't bring herself to it. She didn't know if it was pride, fear, or just uncertainty that captured her words in her throat, but she couldn't tell him.

"I think you should leave."

"Leave this room?" she heard herself asking, as if from far way. Oh, she knew she had messed up. Why couldn't she apologize? What was wrong with her? "Or leave France?"

Her husband hesitated. He looked so frail, so tired, and she just wanted to gather him into her arms and hug him, urge him to sleep, to rest, and tell him that she loved him. "That's up to you," he said at last. "Just don't expect a fond farewell from me. Or my trust. Ever again."

And Mary left.

She didn't want to.

But she didn't know what else to do. So she left, went back to Louis to tell him they would not be going to Scotland. She would make her excuses for now, stall leaving France and Francis, and brace herself for another day of never knowing how to move past things, to apologize, and come back to the one she really loved, even as her heart broke to leave him there alone in the bed.

She was filled with fear.


End file.
